


A Curious Contradiction

by The Primera Haruoka (TenshiEren14)



Series: Two Breaths, Walking. [2]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Aizawa's a coordinator, Camping, Contest Prep, Emotions and internal crises, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Happy Reading, Hizashi's a little gay, Hizashi's a trainer, I wrote this for fun but I really loved how it came out, I'd like to thank God and also Jesus, Look at my young baby boys, M/M, PokeAU, Pre-Slash, Showa Aiura is Aizawa's stage name, They're both just about 19 in this btw, deaf! Hizashi Yamada
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 06:17:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17699210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenshiEren14/pseuds/The%20Primera%20Haruoka
Summary: A lull in their travels and an internal heart-to-heart.Maybe this Aizawa guy isn't as bad as he seems...





	A Curious Contradiction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maely1234](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maely1234/gifts).



> This is wholeheartedly a self-indulgent piece written for my ongoing challenge. I'm very happy with the way it came out and I really want to thank Mae for sticking through all of my yelling and incoherent screeching.

Aizawa wanted to participate in the Celadon City contest. 

 

He had mentioned it offhandedly when they had overnighted in one of the Goldenrod City guesthouses after Hizashi had participated in the Indigo League. It had been awkward for a few days post-competition, what with neither of them really knowing whether they wanted to stick together or go their separate ways. Hizashi had found the air between them more strained than usual, the quiet of his indecision mingling with the stiltedness of Aizawa’s hesitance and though like clockwork, Hizashi had followed Aizawa to Goldenrod, he still hadn’t known where Aizawa stood on the topic of continuing to be his travel partner. Aizawa’s firm reticence certainly didn’t help to abate things. 

 

Then, on the night before they were carded to leave for Saffron City, their boarding passes heavy on the chipped wooden nightstand in between their beds, Aizawa had quietly declared that he would be returning to the contest circuit next season. 

 

It had been a casual declaration, muttered into the folds of his scarf whilst he was combing through the thick plumage of his Honchkrow. Hizashi had been a bit grateful that he hadn’t taken off his hearing aids yet since even with them in he had only barely managed to hear the last of  the low rumblings of Aizawa’s voice. In between the belated excitement that prickled at his spine and the muted surprise that Aizawa had even bothered to make such information available, Hizashi had managed to ask Aizawa to repeat himself. There had been no dry stares, no put-upon sigh, instead, Aizawa had simply motioned for his Honchkrow to stretch her wing and occupied himself with picking out crooked and misaligned feathers from their training session earlier that night, his words clearer even though his focus was firmly on the pampered Pokemon in front of him. 

 

Hizashi didn’t want to believe the subtleties of that gesture, the unspoken invitation to begin piecing together a plan of attack for Kanto in the same way Aizawa had nonchalantly outlined their travel plans for Johto all those months ago in Cianwood City. Still he had fiddled with his ear, considering for the briefest of moments whether he even wanted to continue travelling with Aizawa or not before glancing at the train passes and accepting the undeniable fact of his situation. 

 

He had always wanted to battle Blaine after all. 

* * *

It hadn’t dawned on Hizashi until Aizawa had reported in that dragging tone of his that he would be going shopping once they had gotten to Saffron City that Aizawa was, in fact, his idol Showa Aiura. 

 

Things had been slow-going when they had arrived in Kanto. Hizashi had dragged his feet in challenging Sabrina, half because he was torn between figuring out why he felt incomplete despite just placing in the top eight of the Indigo League and half because he was slightly concerned about Aizawa’s change in routine. In the three or so months they had spent travelling together, Hizashi had learned that Aizawa was very much a creature of habit. He did things on his own schedule, seemingly without meaning or rhyme but Hizashi had been with him for long enough to know that Aizawa’s logic was a thing of formidable beauty once in motion. He unconsciously rationed their food, casually adjusted the amount of water they drank in between cities, never took a more hazardous route than necessary. Everything was precise without being stifling, controlled without being oppressive. Aizawa himself was an amalgamation of rigorous rituals that were maintained with a loose grace that contradicted itself entirely. 

 

That his first course of action in Saffron City was to scour the streets for a fabric store of all things when Celadon City was their next stop had been more than a little baffling. 

 

He didn’t comment on Hizashi’s lack of enthusiasm in the face of prospectively battling another Gym Leader so soon after he had been put through the paces, in fact he barely commented on Hizashi’s absent-mindedness at all. Hizashi knew that he was visibly moping, and perhaps it was an active call for help when he didn’t have the words to verbalise it, but Aizawa had neatly avoided calling to attention Hizashi’s moodiness in favour of spending his days milling about the back streets of the golden city. 

 

They spoke very little in Saffron City, Hizashi losing himself deeper in the pit that was eating away at his stomach and Aizawa losing himself in the bustle of preparations for something that wasn’t mere survival and between them both the air was still charged with uncertainty. How long would this false partnership last? How long would Aizawa continue to tolerate Hizashi’s presence? What would Hizashi do now that he had more or less abandoned music? Would his father accept him even though he had broken his rules? 

 

More often than not, Hizashi was simply glad for Aizawa’s rule of non-interference. If he were going to drown in his teenaged angst, he was glad that his companion (who wasn’t even a companion, more of a wanderer who just so happened to be wandering along Hizashi’s route of interest and wasn’t that just the saddest thing?) had the courtesy to leave him to brood in peace. 

 

(In the back of his mind, he wondered after what Aizawa was creating in the bed across from his with those dark coloured silks and sturdy linens. Most of the nights in Saffron were heated from the artificial lights, stuffy after nine and borderline uncomfortable to sleep in after so much time spent in the milder, more natural Johto. Aizawa seemed unbothered though, the muted slides of fabric against fabric and scissors through cloth becoming just another piece of the midnight ambiance that lulled Hizashi to sleep. There was peace in the air during those times, a dip in Aizawa’s shoulders that had never revealed itself before, a silent, private sort of joy as he quietly sewed the cloth into something new. Hizashi didn’t think about it too hard, didn’t care to think about it actually. Not when the light from the lamp in-between them cast proud emphasis on Aizawa’s noble cheekbones and his artfully slanted nose.)

 

In the end, Hizashi had never gotten around to battling Sabrina. 

 

He had procrastinated for too long, dragging his feet at every interval and throwing himself into a mostly manufactured interest in Saffron City and its tourist attractions. He had spent three days exploring Silph Co, had tried his hands at gambling in a hole-in-the-wall pachinko place, had gotten his hair touched up in a luxury hair salon that took half a day because of the sheer popularity of the place. 

 

Aizawa didn’t comment on it like Hizashi thought he would. The man loathed wasted time, a lesson Hizashi had learned the hard way and yet, apart from a few dismissive snorts, he had largely ignored Hizashi’s blatant disregard for their system in favour of keeping focused on his own tasks.  

 

Hizashi hadn’t bothered to think about why that stung. 

* * *

 

On Route 7, a day’s walk became a five day endeavour. 

Aizawa had been much looser with their time management, looser in general really, and Hizashi had been forced to accept that perhaps he didn’t know Aizawa as well as he had originally thought. It didn’t take long for him to notice that Aizawa was spending much more time meandering about than usual. He purposefully chose the longest route to the north, drawing out their days with trips into the thick surrounding forests and returning with feathers and nuts and honey. Hizashi had taken the extra time to fiddle around with his guitar, something he had been doing less of since he had decided to take battling seriously. 

As much as he was troubled, he couldn’t help the curiosity gnawing at him in the lieu of Aizawa’s apparent energy. 

It bubbled over eventually, rearing its head when Aizawa had begun dying the Articuno feathers they had collected from Whirl Islands all those weaks ago. His Weavile had been by his side the entire time, carefully mixing the strange dye that had been made from crushing nuts and berries and combining them with watered down honey. It had filled the air with a sweet, exotic scent, redolent in a way that intoxicated Hizashi’s senses. Aizawa and his Pokemon seemed displaced yet completely natural as they worked, his usual veil of almost tattered dark hair pulled up and away from his face in fastened into a ponytail using a strip of discarded linen from his nightly projects. Kuro dutifully took the coated feathers in his mouth, gently laying them against a flattened rock to set despite the lack of sunlight. 

Hizashi had found that he couldn’t look away, not when Aizawa elegantly held up each individual feather to examine their coating, extending the pale slope of his corded neck just a bit further past the coverings of his scarf. His dark eyes were deceptively passive yet, somewhere in those smoky orbs there was an unreadable emotion threaded into his focused gaze. An undercurrent of something Hizashi had never seen on Aizawa’s face before. 

It was strange. Made Aizawa seem alien, untouchable. Like the rift between them had evolved into a vast canyon before Hizashi had even gotten his footing. 

If Aizawa had noticed his staring, he didn’t mention it. 

Hizashi should be used to that by now, but somehow, beneath the quiet awe and open curiosity, there was an undeniable numbness. 

* * *

 

On the second day, Hizashi’s words had ceased being lodged in his chest. 

Aizawa had barely moved from his place beside their fire, his eyes trained on the flat rock despite the heavy Kantonian sun burning away at the ground and, by proxy, him. Hizashi had originally wanted to do some training, his Noivern needed to stretch her wings afterall and apart from feeding time, he had neglected to groom his Pokemon nevermind getting them accustomed to the unfamiliar Kantonian air, yet Aizawa’s poised figure somehow sharp yet entirely relaxed had caught his attention. 

Kuro had been absent too, an oddity to say the least. 

He had approached cautiously, a bit unnerved by Aizawa’s contentment to stare into dead air when, unprompted, Aizawa addressed him. “If you’re coming, be quiet.” 

It was a rare thing, Aizawa being the first to break a silence between them. Conversation seemed like such a chore to him, an unfortunate symptom of being forced into a human body which manifested itself in the almost deliberate lethargy of his words. It transformed his already low voice into something of an indolent purr, an inflection that slurred close consonants together and over-emphasized all the wrong parts of a sentence, a rumble that was difficult to hear without being hard to make out. A part of Hizashi was certain that most of the richness of his voice came from whatever his native language was, it was easy to piece together that the Eastern pronunciations of words like ‘ocean’ and ‘city’ were unfamiliar on his tongue after all. It was an easy voice to listen to, auditory contradiction in the firmness of his words married to the flippant air of his tone. It suited him. 

Hizashi stood beside him, straining his vision in an attempt to see what had captured Aizawa’s attention, “Watching paint dry?” 

The tease was well-met, earning a soft but not deriding snort. “Not quite.”

Hizashi blinked. If he didn’t know any better, he would assume that Aizawa had just returned his tease in good faith but the sheer improbability of that occurring given Aizawa’s painfully straight way of speaking muffled that part of Hizashi’s thinking before the thought could develop into anything more. They stayed like that for a bit, Aizawa with his eyes unwavering and Hizashi with his awkward fidgeting until his mental wanderings became too much to bear once more. “You’re sure taking your sweet time. If we hurried, we could get to Celadon City by sunset.”

At this, Aizawa finally looked up at Hizashi, his gaze somehow commanding despite having to crane his neck to catch Hizashi’s own, “It’s pointless to rush. There are more resources out here.”

Hizashi scratched at his cheek, glancing back to the odorous feathers, “Resources? Like honey and Mago Berries? Can’t you just buy them in the department store?”

Aizawa returned his sharp stare to the flat rock, evidently finished with exerting himself to meet Hizashi’s eyes, “Do you have business in Celadon City?”

At that, Hizashi faltered. For a long time, Aizawa’s own urgency had been the driving force behind their brisk travelling pace. The seasons had limited his time, Aizawa had once said, and that was why Hizashi had had to battle all eight Johto leaders by January. Aizawa hadn’t mentioned anymore of those tasks of his in Kanto, hadn’t marked off spots of interest and put keys on the map to indicate a certain deadline. This Aizawa, this unhurried, fastidious man who seemed more than content with lazing in the sun in three layers of clothing and a scarf; maybe this was the real Aizawa and the man with the tense shoulders and the measured words and the brisk pacing was simply a faucet of him. 

It made him think at least. Did he have urgent business in Celadon? There was Erika’s Gym of course but Hizashi still wasn’t sure whether he wanted to pursue the Kanto badges or not. The thought of battling seriously again made him feel preemptively tired, like the Indigo League had burned out his fancy for fighting. Other than that, there were a couple places he wanted to see, particularly the traditional theatre where visitors were able to get a free lesson on traditional Kantonian instruments like the ichigenkin and the biwa. 

Hizashi shrugged, “I guess not.”

There was a distracting undercurrent of smugness in Aizawa’s voice, “Then there is no need to rush.”

Hizashi wanted to argue out of cursory belligerence, but for the first time that morning, there was movement on the flat rock. A Pidgeot of all things had landed, it’s thick plumage beling the no doubt powerful bulk of its large wings. Aizawa carefully adjusted his body, shifting from a sitting position to a purposeful stoop. He loudly clicked his tongue and Hizashi felt more than anything the rush of a sudden tension settle around him. The Pidgeot examined the flat rock, it’s movements light despite its huge frame and after a moment, it scooped up one of the coated feathers and fiddled about with it for just long enough to allow Kuro to pounce on it. 

Aizawa yelled out something in a low exhale, the language like chips of wood crackling in a high flame before sprinting over to the flat rock where the now incredibly ruffled Pidgeot was preparing to use Air Slash. He ordered Kuro to use Bite, his tone light despite the edge in his frame and after a short squabble, the Pidgeot managed to bat Kuro away with its heavy wings and fly away, harried and squawking the entire time through. 

Hizashi stood in stunned silence. 

Aizawa walked over to Kuro, his face hidden from view thanks to his hair being trussed up from the downdraft of Pidgeot’s flaps and the Absol simply dropped the crest feathers it had plucked from the altercation down at Aizawa’s feet, obviously quite proud of herself. The unimaginable happened then, as Aizawa bent to grab the feathers and pat Kuro’s expectant head in one motion. 

He laughed.

It wasn’t a loud or boisterous thing, it wouldn’t even have been particularly note-worthy if not for it being  _ Aizawa _ , but the low, vibrating chuckle was unmistakable. It was a short laugh, a barking sound that barely displaced the air yet punctuated the action almost emphatically. Kuro yipped happily alongside Aizawa’s uncharacteristic joy, mewling a bit as Aizawa’s cursory pats became almost frenetic against the scruff of her neck. He placed a grateful kiss to the space between her beady eyes, mumbling something to her that was too low to be caught before gathering the feathers and walking back to his place beside the long dead fire. 

All Hizashi could do was stand and stare. 

* * *

 

That night, Aizawa disappeared into the woods after dinner. 

There was little preamble, and Hizashi had been a bit curious as to when Aizawa’s propensity for night-walking would show up but he hadn’t expected the man to neglect eating in favour of cleaning and restoring the Pidgeot feathers he and Kuro had acquired with Sho’s watchful eyes gently pecking at Aizawa’s hands whenever he bent a bristle awkwardly. There was calm written into the motions of his pale fingers, a smoothness that stole away bits and pieces of Hizashi’s breath and recontextualized Aizawa’s barbed words and cold stares. 

At the end of the day, Aizawa was young, just as he was. The same age, if not younger. He was not a child, Hizashi wouldn’t disrespect the experience hidden in those endless black eyes by referring to him as such, but he still had the markers of a childhood. Little gestures that marked him as a man with a past more complex than exclusively betrayal and pain. Hizashi could begin to see the sketch of a young, scrappy boy with hair like the night sky and skin like a smattering of stars, a wild thing who delighted in keeping pace with his Pokemon and stifled his laughter with pouts. Hizashi could begin to see Aizawa as something more than a vague shadow of greatness and infallibility. 

Somehow, that serene grace, that understated excitement that flickered in Aizawa’s eyes in tandem with the roaring flame between them made him seem even more amazing. Even more unreachable. He wasn’t just a great man, he was also a good one. A peer who had his life together with clear goals and enough inner peace that he could celebrate chasing birds in the same way he enjoyed restoring and dying loose feathers. He was more than an ideal, he was a person, but the lines between both were so blurred because of Aizawa’s meticulous personality. 

It filled Hizashi with a distant sort of envy. 

When Aizawa had mumbled that he would be back and gathered his feathers and his dinner and meandered into the thick wall of trees, Hizashi was left with nothing but his thoughts and the fire and a sinking, sickening feeling in his stomach. 

He had sat in silence for a bit, just watching the fire eat away at the firewood Aizawa had collected earlier in the day while his thoughts danced about his mind before pulling out Hibiki and MIyako’s Pokeballs and releasing them, hoping that the company would soothe his rattled nerves. 

He should’ve known that Miyako’s first course of action would’ve been to fly away, far and fast and fluid as she aimed for the moon with a high chittering trill trailing behind her. The wind from her wings ruffled Hizashi’s hair and threatened to extinguish the fire but her joy was immeasurable. Hibiki, as usual, perched himself on Hizashi’s left shoulder a melodious chatter escaping his beak as his tail wagged in an upbeat time. Just like that his Pokemon had put the smile back onto his face, had filled his chest with a fondness that for now quieted the growing numbness. 

Miyako landed, her eyes expectant as she waddled over to Hizashi and attempted to stuff her head through the tiny space between his arm and his body, a clear sign that she wanted her collar petted even though she threatened to unbalance Hizashi’s entire body. He laughed lightly at her cuteness, easily losing himself in the softness of Miyako’s thick scruff. 

(He wasn’t ignoring his problems. He just didn’t want to think about it now, not when Miyako was so excited to be out and about and was overdo for some quality grooming.)

* * *

Aizawa woke him up on the third day, his face impassive as always. 

It had been an unexpected thing seeing as Aizawa hadn’t bothered him much since they arrived in Kanto and Hizashi had honestly just assumed that Aizawa would let him do whatever he wanted for the rest of the trip, which, now that he thought about it, was obviously wishful thinking. 

Breakfast was already simmering in the worn wrought-iron pot (or maybe it was some sort of Aizawa-brand brew that Hizashi had already learned tasted a lot better than it looked) and there was a small cluster of Pidgey and Pidgeotto on the flat-rock shuffling about the dried feathers. Hizashi had complained in Kalosi about the early hour, automatically reaching for his hearing aids and pushing his curtain of hair out of his face. Aizawa offered him a cup of tea (not coffee Hizashi noted, even though he knew that Aizawa had picked some up when they had made their cursory trip to Saffron’s Pokemart) and said nothing more while he stirred the pot. 

The damp quiet of morning was easy to slide into and Hizashi found that he couldn’t even be annoyed at Aizawa for the early morning wake-up call. 

During breakfast Aizawa spoke, his words unhurried as always, “You didn’t battle Sabrina.”

The words weren’t as accusatory as he had expected. Aizawa was pointedly looking at his stew, a loose lock of thick, obsidian hair falling out of the ponytail he had put his hair in and sliding precariously close to the edge of the pot. Aizawa casually tucked the strand behind his ear. Hizashi took a sip from his cup. “I guess not.”

Aizawa’s eyes met his for one hefty moment, an exchange that seemed to hint towards much, much more than what he would ever deign to say. He reached into the bag at his feet, pulling out a plastic bowl and sharing out Hizashi’s breakfast (he always served Hizashi first, a tradition thing, Hizashi suspected), “Your guitar is out of tune.”

_ Why are you still here? _

Hizashi wasn’t an idiot, he knew what Aizawa wasn’t saying and it grated at him. He had been neglecting so many things recently, more than was healthy, more than he had wanted to admit. He accepted the stew with a tight smile, “I’ll fix it soon.” 

Aizawa didn’t look up from his bowl, shoving a ludicrously hot spoonful into his mouth without even blowing on it first. Hizashi accepted that that was the end of the conversation and set about blowing gingerly at his food.    
  


“Fix it today.” Aizawa murmured, his voice nonchalant despite the steam escaping with his exhale. 

Hizashi’s surprise was palpable. Aizawa didn’t meddle in things he deemed a waste of time and Hizashi had been fairly certain that his indecision counted as one of the things Aizawa had firmly written off as unimportant. Hizashi put his bowl down, his throat seizing a bit as he prodded for further details despite knowing full and well that it could end in pointed silence from the man, “Why should I? You prefer the silence, don’t you?”

Aizawa put another spoonful into his mouth and Hizashi flinched from the heat of it all, “You don’t.”

Breakfast continued uninterrupted after that. 

Aizawa shooed away the birds at the flat rock after breakfast, working in tandem with Kuro to collect the fallen feathers. 

Hizashi watched them from besides the smoking fire pit, his hands idly tuning his guitar as he considered the concentrated curl to Aizawa’s lips as he carefully measured his Honchkrow. 

* * *

Aizawa was a sadist, Hizashi decided. 

He hid it well all things considered, Hizashi would’ve never pegged him if he hadn’t been awake at two in the morning thanks to a bout of wayward insomnia. 

Usually, Hizashi would play songs on his guitar to soothe himself back to sleep or if he was feeling really restless, he would take a barefooted stroll without his aids in and take his time memorising the feel of the earth. Treks like that usually led to some of the best songs, after all. Instead he was greeted with Aizawa’s low voice growling out the command ‘again’ followed by a freezing gust of wind and the repeated melodic plink of ice against metal. 

He opened his eyes and discreetly shifted in his sleeping bag, swallowing his shocked inhale. 

Aizawa was… exposed for lack of a better word. 

Gone was his cloak and his undershirt and more importantly  _ his scarf _ and in the lieu of his usual clothes there was a simple black wrap covering his upper torso. His pants were dark and loose naturally, but the pearl-pale skin that glimmered in the frigid light of Aiko’s Icy Wind dried out Hizashi’s mouth in a way he had only experienced from watching Showa dazzle a stage in his flamboyant outfits. His hair was swept up and out of his face but it was a neat bun instead of a ponytail, a style that left the column of his neck completely bare and somehow far more seductive than Hizashi ever remembered his neck being. 

Aiko was breathing hard, obviously they had been at this for more than just a while and although Sho looked much more alert than the Weavile, the gorgeous bird was looking expectantly at her Trainer, an air of anxiety in the way she ruffled her feathers to get the remnants of snow out of the tips. Aizawa hummed, folding his arms over his chest (and oh, Hizashi had never pegged him for the muscular sort but obviously he was incredibly,  _ sinfully  _ wrong) “Aiko, you’re putting too much emphasis on the initial draught. Pace yourself. I shouldn’t be feeling a difference in temperature half a minute later. Sho, why are you holding back? Those wings should be sturdy enough to cut mahogany trees in half. There shouldn’t be snow caught in those feathers. Buck up.”

Aiko gritted her teeth but Hizashi could see the gleam of focus in those razor sharp eyes. She took a deep breath in and calmly exhaled and in that moment Hizashi was certain he could see a fine mist envelope the air around her. The fire crackled, popping at a seam in the burning logs. 

“Again.”

Aiko’s Icy Wind seemed to fill the space before laser focusing in Sho’s direction, the flurry of ice and snow twirling almost mystically without once losing velocity. Hizashi felt a beat of anxiety. Trained or not, Honchkrow was painfully susceptible to ice but the bird fearlessly dived into the wind, spinning with enough force to pick up a visible wind trail that, when mixed with the gleaming titanium white of her Steel Wing caused a starburst trail that blazed across the air. 

Contact with the Icy Wind was like splitting atoms. 

An explosion of ice against blinding white that left a shockwave of cold that it extinguished the campfire and shook the trees just behind them. Aizawa grunted, “ _ Focus! _ ” and swiftly, neatly, Sho spread her wings out using the force of their collision to send her hurtling in the opposite direction from Aiko. The shimmering of the exploded Icy Wind softly fell behind Sho, glittering softly in her feathers and creating the illusion of diamond dust on the remnant wind. Quietly Sho landed on Aiko’s crest, both Pokemon breathing labouriously, expectation laced in their muscles as they looked and Aizawa who wore the grimmest expression Hizashi had seen him pull in quite some time. 

The last of the dispersed snow powder fell to the floor and like a switch had been flipped, the largest, most spine-chilling smile cut itself across Aizawa’s face. “Excellent. Both of you. Celadon won’t know what hit them.”

Hizashi was too awed to feel sympathy for the unfortunate souls who would be facing Aizawa in a handful of days. 

* * *

The fourth day was filled with thoughts of Aizawa’s subtly muscled frame against the hyperboreal lights of Aiko’s Icy Wind. 

Throughout their travelling, Hizashi had managed to separate ‘Aizawa’ from ‘Showa Aiura’ in an almost embarrassingly clean way. Aiura was refined, elegant, an imposing figure who commanded attention and the crowd with an unparalleled finesse. Aizawa was a reticent nomadic, a borderline recluse who despised any sort of undue attention and made it damn near impossible to be around. Aiura seemed enchanting through the filter of a tv, the lights and the glitter of his costume and the purring of his voice through the microphones simply adding to his intoxicating aura. Aizawa was more off-putting than a Banette on Harvest and just as prickly what with his never-changing expression and his dragging voice and the distinct aura of ‘there’s far better things I could be doing right now’ that he exuded whenever someone attempted to strike up conversation. Aiura was gorgeous, nevermind the fact that you couldn’t see his face through his litany of masks, the sheen of his hair, the tightness of his form through his costumes, the power that each of his movements carried, it all oozed charisma and attractiveness. Aizawa was unapologetically frumpy, a man who put as much stock in his appearance as he did in other’s opinion of him, which was to say, none at all. 

They were polar opposites, one an ideal, the other a deeply flawed man, but never had they bisected as blatantly as they did in those few moments last night. 

Hizashi was relieved that Aizawa spent most of the day sewing, Kuro sleeping at his feet, he didn’t think he could meet those intense eyes with that image still fresh in his mind. 

* * *

They headed to Celadon in earnest on the fifth day and Hizashi had never been more disquieted. 

The last few days had passed like drying molasses, a sluggish crawl of hours that bled into each other with so little purpose that they seemed to never end. Hizashi had known that they couldn’t stay on Route 7 forever, had known that eventually Aizawa would continue moving towards the goal he had set his sights on but despite this lull in their pace, Hizashi had left their camp place feeling worse than he had on arrival. 

It was so strange. He had woken up in a wonderful mood, the scent of Aizawa’s Haban tea heavy in the air and the man himself in a lighter mood. They had packed up in amicable air, Hizashi humming an old Kalosian tune under his breath and Aizawa sweeping up splinters of wood and ash into a bucket to dispose of in the forest. As Aizawa had brushed past Hizashi to do a final inspection, he softly muttered, “Did you tune your guitar?”

Hizashi had automatically responded with an affirmative, reaching for his guitar with an energetic jaunt to his movement, but a quick glance at Aizawa revealed an almost… disappointed expression. 

Hizashi felt distinctly like he was missing something. 

They walked in silence for a bit, Aizawa keeping just a few paces ahead while Kuro ran about the route, the white blur pausing intermittently to bring Aizawa whatever berries she managed to find whilst exploring. The day was peaceful, the sun milder than it had been in the past week and through the din of Spearow chirps and rustling grass, Hizashi stopped walking altogether. 

Aizawa had been worried about him. 

This slow pace, this distance, it had been so he could sort himself out. 

Somehow he had missed that. Somehow he had  _ squandered  _ that and Aizawa, who so disdained adjusting his pace for others, had outright halted their travelling,  _ his  _ travelling just to ensure that Hizashi was okay to keep pace. Hizashi had read the scheduling for the contests, Aizawa would barely make it in time to sign up in Celadon, a margin that Hizashi knew must just set his teeth on edge but instead of complain or rush or even deride like he was so wont to do, Aizawa had quietly, deliberately slowed down even more in the wake of Hizashi’s no doubt concerning behaviours. 

In between it all, Aizawa had travelled even further out of his comfort zone, checking in on Hizashi, stepping away from the campfire while he trained, going out of his way to make heartier meals instead of the usual bland porridges he was so fond of whipping up. He had been attentive in an absent sort of way, a subtle, conscientious worried that had never pushed at  Hizashi, never harried. Aizawa had been, dare he say it, delicate over the past week and Hizashi hadn’t been able to get out of his head for long enough to notice. 

He didn’t even once give thanks for the food.  

God, he was a piece of shit, wasn’t he?

Aizawa stopped walking (he never stopped when he was so pressed for time, last time they had been running this late, Aizawa had left Hizashi stranded in Ilex Forest without a moment’s hesitation), “Yamada?”

His voice was smooth, deceptively smooth. He was so infuriatingly good at hiding what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Hizashi had just thrown all of his goodwill back into his face, had blatantly mocked him earlier by foolishly saying that he tuned his damned guitar even though the music in his head was a chaotic, discordant jumble that shook his blood and made his heart pump out of time. He was a fool, a whole idiot and Yveltal smite him where he stood for missing all the signs so spectacularly. 

A soft veil covered his head before he could stop it, a light coloured shawl folding itself across his shoulders. Aizawa was standing before him, his expression put-upon but this close, Hizashi could make out the bow in his eyebrows from behind his tangle of bangs, the only visible sign of his concern. “It’s still spring. Buy a new one when we get to Celadon.”

_ You’re worrying me, why are you still shaking? _

Aizawa didn’t linger like Hizashi thought he would. Kuro yipped from beyond their position and like a petal in a breeze, Aizawa’s presence was gone leaving not even a whisper in its wake. 

Hizashi didn’t cry, but it was a near thing.   

* * *

The moment they got to Celadon City, Aizawa made a beeline for the Pokemon Center, going so far as taking a taxi since the Route 7 entrance was on the other side of the bustling metropolis. He had offered Hizashi a ride in as Aizawa a way as possible (leaving the door open and scooting over in the seat like he expected Hizashi to slot in) but in the end, Hizashi had decided to walk. The contest would be in a handful of days, three to be precise and in between walking with Aizawa and his recent epiphany, he really felt like he would be better off on his own. 

He released his Furfrou and laughed at his steadily wagging tail. Prince hadn’t had a haircut in about three months so his fur was an unruly mess, uneven and thick and undoubtedly heavy. Hizashi didn’t think it was too bad though, Prince loved having so much fur, delighted in the extra tufts and the curling hair so long as the heat wasn’t too bad. It was impractical to keep his fur that long when Hizashi couldn’t exactly guarantee proper maintenance. There hadn’t been a grooming center in Saffron so Hizashi was really hoping that Celadon had one.

Of course, all of this was a way to keep his body busy while his mind raced. 

Challenging the Indigo League had opened Hizashi’s eyes to a lot of things. He had never known how fun it was to properly train his Pokemon, had never known the intimate joy of ironing out moves and tightening maneuvers and getting his inexperienced bum handed to him in new and innovative ways. He had gotten so close to his Pokemon in the past months, had learned more about himself than he had ever thought he would but still there was this emptiness in him. The same detached, glassy feeling that bubbled in his chest from his days living in the lap of luxury, he just didn’t understand why. 

His life now was the perfect opposite of his life in Kalos. There were no guards, no father hovering over his shoulder and policing his choices, no pressure of expectation strangling him. Aizawa had made it abundantly clear that he didn’t care much for Hizashi’s decisions once they didn’t interfere with his. He cooked yeah, but Hizashi was never obligated to eat what was made and he set out their schedule but Hizashi had the freedom to deviate at any point in time. Most nights they spent outside on the hard ground with the meagre warmth of controlled fire as their night light and most days they spent walking. Sometimes they ran low on things like clean clothes or ingredients but Aizawa was resourceful and he had been teaching Hizashi how to be resourceful too. 

Hizashi had been so happy that he was doing things on his own, that he was finally pursuing his dream to be a Pokemon Trainer, but now that he had completed a League, what else was there? 

Maybe that was where Hizashi’s problem lay. He had dreamed for years about being victorious in a League, and now that he had achieved a degree of excellence, now that his dream was realized, he felt an awful lot like a paper boat caught in a hurricane. 

What next? 

There was always music, Hizashi supposed, it was still something he loved dearly, something that was always on his mind but he had left behind his tour to pursue Pokemon without a second thought, seduced by the phantom of a stupid idol crush and a crippling lack of foresight. He had never wanted to abandon his passion and he had continued writing songs even though he had stopped recently, but it felt an awful lot like defeat, crawling back to his original plan like that. It felt an awful lot like he had been soundly whipped by life.

Hizashi hated it, hated how it made his hands tremble, hated how it made him absolutely blue with internal rage. 

Prince snorted at him, peeking up at him through this bush of fur, tilting his face in open concern. Hizashi gave him a melancholic smile, ruffling his fur and taking the hair-tie he had totally-not-stolen from Aizawa out of his hair. “Let’s get you some clips or something, huh boy?” 

Seeing Prince’s wide red eyes as Hizashi carefully put his fur up made him smile. 

He just wanted to stay with his Pokemon. 

(He just wanted to play music.)

* * *

Aizawa stayed away until the day of the contest. Paperwork and background checks and finalizing Pokemon selection and costumes had all kept him busier than he’d ever been before and Hizashi had taken the time to groom his Pokemon after putting it off for so long. 

The morning of the invitational, Hizashi had woken up to the sound of bags rustling and light paws against crimpling creche cloth that he vaguely remembered Aizawa bringing to their room two nights back. When he had bothered to open his eyes, Aiura was standing in front of him, a vision of elegance against the half-light of the opened window. Hizashi felt his tongue turn to lead in his mouth as he shot up in bed, suddenly fully awake. 

Then it hit him that it wasn’t Aiura. 

It was Aizawa. He had shaved and his hair was elaborately arranged, braided and pinned with what were definitely Articuno feathers with silver ornaments threaded into the plaits forming an exquisite hair style that accentuated his features, but it was definitely Aizawa. 

He was still slouching, his expression was still casually neutral, he was still in a cloak and loose slacks and heavy boots. 

Hizashi pressed his palms to his eyes and exhaled. “That should be illegal.”

Hizashi couldn’t see Aizawa’s reaction by virtue of his hands covering his face, but he’d like to imagine that Aizawa was looking in his direction, “What? - can’t -dle --tle cha--?” 

Hizashi frowned. Right, aids. 

By the time he had put his hearing aids in and adjusted the little instruments, Aizawa had already slipped his thick shades on and had finished collecting his things. Hizashi sighed, pointedly not looking at Aizawa because for some reason his heart hadn’t stopped hammering even though it was  _ just Aizawa _ . “When’s the contest start?”

Aizawa’s rich voice seemed distant when he was that close to the door despite the room being tiny, “Noon. You don’t need to come.”

At that Hizashi laughed, chancing the blush and giving Aizawa a painfully overt once-over, “You kidding? I’m a fanboy, remember?”  

He got a closed door for his teasing. It was totally worth it. 

* * *

The air outside the makeshift contest hall was electric. 

There were loads of people by the drove-full milling about and chattering and picking up trinkets from the various stalls set up on the sides of the alley. Hizashi was sure he had seen at least seven ball capsule stalls, surer still that he had seen a few kiosks selling pictures of famous Contestants (and if he bought a few portraits of Aiura from the Wallace Cup, which, by the way, were the rarest Aiura pictures to get, his outfit had been made of glass and wire and his mask had been sponsored by an indie designer whose father was apparently acquainted with Steven Stone, then nobody needed to know). It made him feel alive, this energy. He had always been an extroverted person and this much happy energy condensed in one place absolutely intoxicated him. Hizashi’s steps became surer the deeper he lost himself in the crowd, he could do this, this was just the boost his mind needed. 

Then Aiura Showa was in front of him, all long pale limbs hidden away by dark, sheer cloth and darkened feathers like beckoning fingers. 

He was a sight to behold in the reception hall, his costume form-fitting as usual, but the sheer quality of the cloth he had used let loose coy slips of unbroken alabaster, the curve of a thigh here, a slip of elbow there. It was dizzying, intoxicating,  _ alluring _ and Hizashi had walked over before he knew what he was doing, his mind on automatic and his body unwilling to fight. 

Aiura was quietly speaking to the receptionist, seemingly unbothered by the blatant stares of the surrounding men and women, but the moment he caught Hizashi in his peripheral vision, he bristled. Hizashi was a bit confused, (why would Aiura startle like that when seeing him?) but as Aiura turned to walk away from the counter, a soft thanks like melted chocolate falling from his lips, he bluntly addressed Hizashi. “You’re too noticeable.” 

Not Aiura.

_ Aizawa. _

Aiura didn’t exist. He was a stage name, a costume Aizawa put on and took off with practiced ease. If Hizashi looked now he could very clearly see the cracks in that costume, the subtle tension of his broad shoulders because his senses were on high alert due to the constant attention, the way he subtly favoured his left leg when he stood still because Aiko’s Night Slash had nicked his right knee a handful of days before, the way he was distant even when interacting with staff. Neutral, even. 

Hizashi shuffled outside in pursuit of a booth that carried hats and sunglasses. 

Oddly, he wasn’t disappointed that Aizawa’s words had knocked him back to reality. Instead there was a sinking in his stomach completely unrelated to the murmured warning. Hizashi should be honoured, he supposed that he knew who the real Showa Aiura was. It should be a fan’s greatest joy, shouldn’t it? Getting the privilege to study the subject of their obsession 24/7? Hizashi had information that no one else did. He knew how long Aizawa had practiced his routine for, knew what type of feathers he was using, knew the recipe for naturally dying the feather. He could recall what type of fabric hsi outfit was made of, knew what diet he had put Aiko and Sho on to keep their coats looking extra glossy. 

Yet there was no excitement in him. There was only envy. 

Aizawa was unattractive nine days out of ten. Aizawa was borderline rude and didn’t sleep and had no sense of humour and took profound and inexplicable joy in watching Hizashi fail. He was incapable of normal human conduct, careless of social cues and lacking in awareness. At the same time, he was the most infuriatingly meticulous person Hizashi had even met. He had good breeding, was polite without being intrusive, was an excellent teacher and honestly seemed to have the best of intentions despite his outward prickliness. Hizashi knew all of these things and yet. 

And yet…

There was still so much about Aizawa he didn’t know-- that he wasn’t  _ allowed  _ to know. The man’s heart was buried so deeply beneath his skin that Hizashi earnestly wondered if it still beat in his chest. He was neutral to the point of being concerning, caustic to the point of self-deprecation. He was prideful but understated, prone to explosive displays of skill yet incredibly precise. He was easy to live with but difficult to accept. 

What gave a walking contradiction like that the right to have his life so figured out? How could a guy like that be so in control of his chaotic mess of personality traits when Hizashi could barely figure out what he wanted for breakfast in the morning? How was he sleeping standing up one day but fearlessly facing down legendary birds the next? What had Hizashi missed that made Aizawa so different from him? What right did Aizawa have to be so disgustingly dignified when he lived the life of a vagabond?

He was firm where Hizashi was flimsy. He was stable where Hizashi was gelatin. He was ice where Hizashi was a maelstrom, directionless and wild and all-consuming until he burned out, until he could barely shake blades of grass, nevermind shake the foundations of houses. It burned at Hizashi that a man like that could ever have a persona like Aiura. Aizawa had found his niche in life so  _ easily _ (that’s not true, Hizashi knew men and Aizawa had become one far too early, why?), he could play his roles so effortlessly (wrong again, he hasn’t slept more than a handful of hours in the past two weeks. Maybe the mask was to hide his bags). Aizawa didn’t deserve it. He was unbecoming. He was graceless. He was stubborn. He was placid. He was focused. He was lazy. He was too hard working. He was gentle. He was far too strict. He was kind. He was uncaring. He was---

He was-- 

He was… 

Hizashi put the money on the table for his hat with a bit more force than necessary.  It took him a bit to properly shove all of his hair beneath the wide-brimmed hat, what with his breathing off-kilter but eventually he managed. After a moment of hesitation, he bought a pair of sunglasses too. 

He made his way to the reception desk, sighing when he noticed that it was ten minutes past noon. He'd have to settle for back row seats then. Not the best, but certainly doable. The receptionist flagged him down though, a gracious smile on her face as she asked after his name. 

“Yamada, right? Mr Aiura marked you down as his plus one. Follow that gentleman in red to your seat and enjoy the show!”

…

Hizashi didn’t care that Aizawa had bothered to mention a plus one. Hizashi didn’t care that Aizawa had catered to him at all, probably still worrying silently over Hizashi’s recent bout of capriciousness. He was glad for ring-side seats though. Hibiki loved the bright colours of a contest and Hizashi could mute his hearing aids so the crowd didn’t addle his head without worry of missing anything. It didn’t matter though. 

(He was lying.) 

(He would force Aizawa to eat out tonight as thanks. Gin and cutters just like he liked. Hizashi would make sure of it.)


End file.
